Wendigo
by CSI Clue
Summary: Abbie and Ichabod have a few good people on their side when it's time to deal with a Wendigo.
1. Chapter 1

Sometimes walking around Sleepy Hollow is a real pain.

You might think I mean that in a figurative sense, but I'm here to tell you that's not the case. I mean it actually does hurt. Not a lot, and not all the time—I would have moved away long ago if that was the case—but there are times and places around here that definitely remind me of where I am in unpleasant ways.

My brother Seamus feels it too. That's why his car lot's just outside the township proper, away from the direct influence. He doesn't like talking about it, not even with me, but he doesn't deny it anymore. Sometimes when he's in a bitchy mood he'll tell me it's because we're the good guys. "Suffering; that's our lot in life, right? Both sides of the family bringing it on for the last two decades."

He's got a point. When you're Native American _and_ Scots Irish, there's a lot of painful history right there, but Seamus always forgets the good part too, and it boils down to this: suffering makes us stronger. I'm still not talking figuratively here in case you were wondering. I mean despite all of the conflicted miasma that drifts through Sleepy Hollow, Seamus and I can take it and do. We know the lay of the land, and have a pretty good read on the people here.

I'm Hannah, by the way. Hannah Nokomis Duncan. I run the Take the Cake Bakery on Elm and Third in town. You probably know the place; the one with the pink awnings and the neon cupcake signs in the windows? Forget subtle; I know what it takes to compete with Starbucks around here and I know damned sure_ I_ do a better muffin. Lots of folks around here think so too.

People like Sheriff Corbin, rest his soul. He always told me if I ever branched out into pie he'd marry me, which was one of the nicest compliments I ever got. Too bad pie wasn't my forte; I'd have kept him to his word and out of Maddie's Diner. I miss him stopping by each week to chat, and grab a baker's dozen of my best for his staff. A week after his funeral I put a cruller on his grave and buried a St. Benedict medal just under his headstone.

Hope it helps him rest; more than anyone else I know, he deserves peace.

Anyway, as I said, walking around Sleepy Hollow can be a pain. For instance, I _never_ cut through the old graveyard because I get a bad case of the prickles if I do. Imagine having the bristle end of a broom pressed hard against the crooks of your elbows, the backs of your knees and the tender skin of your throat all at the same time.

That's the prickles. They hurt, and they get worse when I know I'm passing by certain graves. I suspect it's why mourners don't linger much in Reverend Knapp's churchyard after funerals.

I also don't like the woods at the north side of town either. The place has had a bad reputation for years; even before the Mills sisters were found there and even now it's undeveloped because nobody can ever finish surveying the area. Part of the main road into town cuts through it, and if I have to drive that way I go as quick as I legally can.

And even then the sensation still feels like cobwebs clinging to me, urgh.

Still there are good places too. I don't want to make anyone think Sleepy Hollow doesn't have pretty parks and a breathtaking overlook and in the holiday snow you won't find a more gorgeous little town. The river is clean, the homegrown vegetables here are the best and on long summer nights you can see almost every constellation in the sky. I grew up here and I'm generally pretty happy about staying on.

But as Seamus would point out, it's because I'm one of the good guys. He is _too_, he just doesn't like to admit it to anyone. Aunt Marie knew both he and I had it in us back when we were kids and she made it her business to put the edge on the axe, as the saying goes.

We were trained in a lot of the old arts, and listened to a lot of the legends growing up. Other kids had catechism; we had lodge days. Aunt Marie would not only tell us about Ojibwa and Mohawk and other First Nation mythology but also stories about our town too. The stuff Corwin was skirting around the edges of.

So that's how I knew that what happened to Abbie and Jenny was real.

Not that I could do or say anything that would help; I was only a year older than Abbie at the time. Still, Aunt Marie and I left baskets of meals on their porch for the first couple of months, and I gave a fat lip to anyone who talked bullshit about those girls when I was around. It didn't help much but it made _me_ feel better.

After college, I came back to Sleepy Hollow wondering what I was going to do with a degree in cultural psychology. I was hurting. I mean Will had died before we'd even gotten to announce our engagement, I'd lost out on the prestigious internship in Boston, and I was too broke to even get a foothold in any of the big cities. Rough time until Seamus showed me the real estate Aunt Marie had left each of us. He got the acreage he ended up turning into Geronimotors—which for the record I think is possibly the stupidest name _ever_—and I got the lot on Elm and Third.

So I built my bakery there. Baking is easy, bread never goes out of demand, and I had the added bonus of living upstairs from work.

The night after the concrete foundation was laid I came back with two drums of purified salt and poured an unbroken line of it all around the perimeter of the cement. Did it again when the supports were put in, and once more when I had the flooring done. Three layers of fortification, invisible to the eye.

That's why people feel comfortable in my shop. Safe. They're protected at Take the Cake the minute they cross the threshold. I have other shields in place too, but nothing obvious. At least I didn't _think_ they were obvious until Abbie Mills and her companion came in.

Seamus had warned me. "Knows about Ro'kenhronteys, Han. Even says the name right; look out for him."

I watched him study the shop even as I nodded to Abbie, ready to take her order. "Hey lieutenant. More doughnut holes?"

Before she could say anything, the man with her pointed a finger and spoke up. "_That_ is a hag-stone!"

He was right of course; I'd had it mortared in between the bricks above the glass-front oven and most people think it's just a funky piece of decoration. Abbie looked over at him and then at the stone. It's a nice big one of mottled green glass with a hole in the center about the diameter of my pinkie.

"A what?" she asked him, and I cleared my throat so they'd both look my way.

"Hag-stone. They keep witches out. I didn't want any coming down the chimney and screwing up my brioches."

Abbie smirked because she thought I was kidding but Crane gave me a stare that I gave right back to him until his manners kicked in.

"Forgive my outburst," he murmured and did a little head-bow thing. "My name is Ichabod Crane, associate of Lieutenant Mills here."

He pronounced her rank with that British inflection—'leftenant'—and the more I looked at him the more he stood out, from the clothes to the ribbon holding back his hair. Anybody else would have been giving off a hipster vibe from a mile off, but I didn't get that, not with him.

And he'd made it over the doorsill, so I relaxed. "Hannah N. Duncan, proprietress."

"Best baker in town," Abbie added and I grinned at her.

"Six _free_ doughnut holes just for that," I shot back, making her snicker. Crane smiled briefly too and it did a lot for him.

"A noble profession and one in which you are well-versed, judging by my previous consumptions."

"Previous consumptions?" Abbie teased him and turned to me. "Don't let the lean physique fool you; he practically _inhaled_ the last bag I shared with him."

"Lieutenant!"

She mouthed 'in-_haled_' again and I ended up laughing because hey, it's nice to know your work's appreciated.

"Now that our little moment of levity has passed," Crane harrumphed, "I am curious about your stone, Miss Duncan."

"One of my ancestors brought it back from Scotland," I told him as Abbie pointed to various glass cases and I began to fill a box with muffins. "It's got its uses."

I got a sharp look from Crane for that and let him see I was serious before getting back to the business of chocolate chip versus blueberry. Abbie looked a lot more relaxed than I'd seen before, which was good. Part of it was being in a safe place of course, but I suspected there was more to it.

"Duncan, Duncan . . . are you perchance related to Seamus Duncan?" Crane murmured in my direction while looking at one of my seven-layer Sin Deluxe cakes.

"Sister," I told him, and put an extra muffin in the box before taping it up and handing it to Abbie. "He mentioned you two."

At that, both Crane and Abbie looked at me. It was good that there weren't too many customers around because I could tell I'd struck a chord with them, so I made change for Abbie's twenty and gave a little shrug. "You . . . impressed him; not many people do that."

She tipped her head and looked bemused. "He impressed us too."

I nodded. "Under that gruff exterior is a wise man. Just don't let him sell you that DeLorean."

Abbie laughed at that, and Crane didn't get it but smiled indulgently anyway. As he came closer as she took the muffins out of his reach and he pretended not to notice. "Are _you_ as well-versed in tribal lore as he is, Miss Duncan?"

The curse of a direct question. I knew I couldn't fudge on this, so I looked him straight in the eyes. "We both know the ways, Mister Crane. And we both know the lay of the land around here."

I watched Abbie look up at the hag-stone again while Crane gave a slow nod, all of us perfectly aware of what I said—

-and what I meant.

Later I told Seamus about it and he grunted. "You don't want to be encouraging them, Han. Things are stirring up around here and they're in the middle of it."

"They're on the right side," I pointed out to him. "And sooner or later everyone in Sleepy Hollow's going to have to pick one."

He didn't have an answer for that.


	2. Chapter 2

Aunt Marie taught me lots of things, and one of them was to look beings in the eyes. College taught me a lot about body language and the psychology of human response, but that combined with everything else has helped me figure out my customers pretty quickly.

Most kids are good of course; comes from being innocents in general. Most of the tourists are good too; they're only here a short while and don't stay long enough to feel the influences in Sleepy Hollow. And dogs. Dogs are good.

I don't own a dog, but there's one who hangs out around Take the Cake so I guess by default he's my dog, after a fashion. Sure I put food out for him and there's a big plastic bin lined with a blanket in the side hall leading out to the alleyway, but I don't actually own him. People don't_ own_ dogs; they form alliances with emotionally supportive benefits on both sides. At least that's what I tell myself.

I call him Wolf, although 'Haystack' would probably be a better name. He's a big shapeless mass of curly brown fur with enormous paws and a tongue that hangs out like a red washcloth. If you're a good one and you get near him, he'll use that tongue on you until you cry 'Uncle!'

And if you're a bad one, he'll growl. Low. Down in the barely audible range, but your hair will prickle and if you're smart, you'll back off and get lost.

Inside the shop I do fine on my own, but if I head out, Wolf goes with me. Not because I ask him to, or hell, even _want_ him to—he just does. If I try to drive off somewhere he'll lope along the sidewalk following me, embarrassing me . . . you get the picture. I've learned to simply open the back door of my car and let him jump in because he's determined to go with me wherever I go.

I suppose he'd be a familiar if I was a witch, or a spirit guide if I was a Medicine woman, but I'm neither of those, so I simply think of Wolf as a companion. He showed up a day after I'd broken ground to build Take the Cake and that's enough of a sign for me.

Wolf was the one who alerted me about Andy Brooks.

Andy used to come into my shop a few years back. A big one for brownies, that guy, and nice in a quiet sort of way. Then one morning Wolf growled at him. I was embarrassed by that, and gave Andy a few extra brownies as an apology, but I should have paid attention. The next time he didn't come in. He stood outside and waved. I came out and Andy said something about having a cold, not wanting to spread it around . . . I took his order and brought it out to him.

By the second time he waved me out, I realized it was because he couldn't step over my threshold and that depressed the hell out of me. I didn't want to add him to the list, but there it was. Andy was one of the bad ones.

He hasn't been back since.

There were others of course—the music teacher, and the little old woman who ran the bowling alley, even the Avon lady. Some of them knew it and wouldn't meet my eyes. Others . . . who can tell, right? They might have had nightmares they rationalized away. I don't know.

What I _do_ know is that the new chief of police was the handsomest man I'd ever seen. I probably shouldn't say that since it's such a shallow observation, but Will had been dead and gone for nearly three years and I'm only flesh and blood. When he came strolling in that first time I tried hard not to stare, and in the course of avoiding that I ended up slamming my hand in the sliding door of the bakery case, pinching it pretty good.

He looked concerned so I had to wave my wounded fingers and try to grin, which probably looked as stupid as it felt. "I'm fine. This happens sometimes," I assured him. Wolf came over and tried to lick my hand; I tried to push him away because having a dog in the shop wouldn't go over well with the health inspectors let alone the chief of police.

"You sure? Because I prefer my pastries free of human blood," he murmured in that straight-faced way of his.

"Picky, picky," I chided him, just to have something to say, and it must have been the right thing because he gave the tiniest smirk possible. Wolf figured I was fine and trotted around the counter to inspect the chief, bringing a cold, wet nose right where no man really wants one. Luckily said man seemed to be a dog person.

"Whoah, unless you hold a medical license, stand down, big guy," Irving told him, and Wolf sat, his big fuzzy tail sweeping across the linoleum. Irving looked at me approvingly. "Well-trained."

"Nah, he just likes you," I admitted. "He's a pretty good judge of character. He's Wolf, and I'm Hannah. Hannah N. Duncan."

He held out a hand and shook mine very gingerly. "Frank Irving, police chief. What's the 'N' for?"

I blushed. "Um, Nokomis."

Now I'd have to explain. Again.

But instead he just nodded. "Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Nice."

I blinked at him. "Wow, you actually _know_ the reference. I'm impressed."

He gave a little self-deprecating shrug and right then, that's when my official crush started, because hey, who couldn't fall for a literate public servant, right?

-oo00oo-

One of the other points about my particular job is that I start very early in the morning. Too early for most people, but if I want to sell bread by seven I have to be up by four to get it going after the overnight proofing. The big glass windows of Take the Cake look out onto Elm Street, and in the neon-pierced darkness it gets creepy out there. Between the fog and the leaves skittering and the headless rider, there's a lot to make you jump.

Yes I saw him, the horseman that is. Saw him before the rumors started going around town and I can tell you he was extremely sinister. Went galloping by down the middle of the road and his horse's hooves were striking sparks the entire way. I threw myself behind the counter and held onto Wolf for at least half an hour. Probably would have stayed there longer but one of the timers went off and I knew I had to turn the donuts or else lose the whole batch.

Later a few policemen came by to ask me if I'd seen anything and I had to tell them a half-truth about it; that I'd only caught a glimpse of a horse going past. When I met up with Seamus later I told him the whole of it though, and he got that sour look on his face.

"More than just winds blowin' around this town," he grunted. "Maybe Nathan and I oughta go fishing."

Fishing is my brother's way of pulling back and laying low. Seamus's got it harder than I do because he takes stuff seriously even if he pretends to scoff at it. He and his best friend Nathan can both sort of look underneath the skin of this town and see what's down there. They don't talk about it, they don't interfere with it, but they know when it's moving.

Like now.

"Crane's here to balance against the bad one," Seamus told me. "Him and the Mills woman both. They're new to the territory though, still working out their footing."

"Are they up to it?" I asked him, feeling a little anxious. I liked Abbie. She was one of ours from right here, and from what I'd seen of Crane he was a good one.

"If they can keep each other out of trouble, maybe."

Seamus isn't exactly an optimist, but I've learned to listen to him, so I just nodded and made a mental note to stock up on supplies.

I saw Abbie and Crane a few more times after that, usually for breakfast goodies. They'd come in with their Starbucks coffees and pick up either muffins or doughnuts, and sometimes I would hear them discussing things. It wasn't like I was _deliberately_ eavesdropping or anything, but they seemed interested in the Book of Revelations because I know I heard snatches of conversation about the Four Horsemen.

I couldn't see any connection between _our_ Horseman and the Four, but that seemed to be the gist of what they were on about, which seemed a weird topic. Especially between two people who were such opposites: man and woman, white and black, academic and professional. If I had to guess I'd say Crane was probably Anglican and I know Abbie had been Baptist ages ago, so yeah, definitely at different ends of the spectrum all around.

But they made a cute couple. Anyone looking at the pair of them could see they were attuned to each other in a way beyond a mere work relationship. For one thing, Crane flirted with her. It was subtle and really old-fashioned, but it was there. For another, Abbie had his back. She always seemed to take point when they walked around, and more than once I saw her check to make sure he was closest to the exit wherever they were.

They had a connection, all right, although sometimes I wasn't sure if they understood it.

Anyway, they talk about the Four Horsemen got me curious so I found Aunt Marie's bible and looked up Revelations just to refresh myself on them, and it wasn't pleasant reading; Conquest/Pestilence, War, Famine and Death weren't anyone's idea of a boy band. I figured the Horseman had been one of them . . . War maybe? Because he'd been in a war? I dunno, it was all guesswork on my part. All of them seemed terrifying, and wondered which one of them had used Ro'kenhronteys as his lackey.

Out of all of them though, I was most bothered by Famine, and that goes back to Aunt Marie talking about the Wendigo. Legends can be powerful influences and she got me at just the right age to scare the _crap_ out of me with stories about him and his appetite. It may be one of the unconscious reasons I work with food now, if you want to go to the Freudian level.

In any case, I stocked up on ingredients and kept an eye on the weather.

The snow came as it always does; thick and white and a pain to drive in. The sky is what depresses me on snow days, what with it looking so grey most of the time. I was glad my neon lights could at least put some color in the air, and most mornings the chief stopped in before work to get a jelly-filled breakfast.

I always served him myself; Naomi thinks my crush on him is cute. It's all right, though—my assistant baker has one herself, on Jenny Mills. Naomi works part time as a janitor up at Tarrytown and she tells me that Abbie's sister is a goddess. I can believe it, given the bone structure that runs in that family.

I guess we all have our dreams. Anyway, I know Chief Irving likes the raspberry jelly, so I make sure to have them on hand. About the middle of November he asked me if I did themed birthday cakes, and that was when I found out about his wife—ex-wife, yes, and daughter.

The theme he wanted was Mathematics. I stared at him standing there in his parka and then assured him that if he wanted equations and proofs I could do it, with a calculator on top to check the answers.

"Sounds good, although I'll have to trust you on that. I'm not the one with number sense," he told me as he picked up his bag of doughnuts.

"How old will she be?" I asked, "So I can work it into the design."

"Fourteen," the chief told me with a sigh.

Before I could commiserate or say anything more, the wind picked up outside, a huge gust that hit my front windows making them rattle. I swear the snowflakes hit like pebbles against the glass. Naomi looked alarmed and Wolf growled.

"_That_ didn't sound good," the chief ventured, turning to look out the windows.

It wasn't; outside was a wall of white swirling fog so thick you couldn't see anything beyond the fire hydrant on the corner. The wind moaned in a way that made the hair go up on the back of my neck, and if I'd been alone I would have bolted the door and slunk upstairs to get into bed.

"Snowsquall," I murmured. "Big one. You're going to have traffic problems with that blowing in."

The chief muttered a bad word under his breath, nodded thanks to me and headed out into the wind. Naomi and I lost sight of him in three steps, and she came over to me, shivering. "Hannah . . ."

"Go," I told her. She lives out on the south side of town and most of the morning baking was already done. As it was it was still going to take her at least an hour to get home. "Wolf and I can handle the rest of the day."

Later though, after she'd gone, I stood close to the big front window and tried to see if any cars were moving on Oak Street. I turned up the music to drown out the wind, and to counter the cold deep in my guts.


	3. Chapter 3

That squall was the first one, and it lasted nearly three days. Talk about frigid, yeow! I not only had the central heating on, but also a couple of electric heaters going, particularly in the bathroom. Business was slow that first day because the plows were working the priority routes around the hospital and the fire stations, but from the few hearty souls who made it in I learned that the greatest snowfall had hit us here in Sleepy Hollow.

Somehow that didn't surprise me.

Still, I kept the coffee urns topped and played every disco hit I could just so my spirits didn't wilt. Sure it's goofy but music, particularly upbeat music helps. Not only is that basic psychology, it's also a good business practice, particularly against the weather. People smiled, and lingered, which was a nice hedge against the fog of white outside.

Then I got caught dancing, which embarrassed the daylights out of me.

It was late in the second day of the squall and I was alone in _Take the Cake_, wiping down the tables, feeling good and wondering if I had enough puff dough for pain au chocolate._ Funkytown_ was just ending but I was still shaking my booty when Abbie and Crane pushed their way through the doors and into my shop, brushing off snow and staring at me. Abbie was grinning and I felt myself blush.

"Oh you _go_ girl," she told me as she pulled off her knit hat. "Anything to get the circulation back, yeah?"

I tried to regain my dignity, but between Abbie's smirk and Crane's raised eyebrow and twinkle it was tough. "I was just . . ."

"Getting your freak on," Abbie murmured and I lost it, particularly at the look on Crane's face. He tried not to smile but it was a losing battle.

"Pray what—" he started to ask, but I waved it off and stuck the cleaning towel in my apron pocket.

"Party's over unless you're in too," I told Abbie and of course that was right when _Shake Your Groove Thing_ came on.

The _one_ song I have trouble resisting. So I kept bouncing and Abbie joined in, moving with me as we danced around Crane like a couple of fly girls. He stared at us like we'd gone insane, eyebrow arching up, but even I could see his hands were twitching and he was fighting a smile.

"I'm loathe to ask, but what precisely _is_ a 'groove thing'?" he called out over the music.

Abbie just laughed, but I made it a point to pat my butt so Crane would get an answer, and his expression was pretty damned priceless. I could tell he was torn between watching us and being a gentleman, so he took the coward's way out and went to pet Wolf, who leaned against him and took one for the team. Abbie and I just laughed and I went to turn down the music. "Okay, enough jazzercise for one day; what can I get you two?" I asked them, feeling flushed.

Abbie brushed her hair back and grinned at me. "Now I'm too warm for coffee, that's for sure. Any apple juice?"

I nodded and pulled one of the single serve bottles out from the back while Crane came forward, trying to regain a sense of composure even though his face was pink.

"In my day," he began, and I saw Abbie all but roll her eyes, "dancing was an _art_, and shared with members of the fairer sex through intricate, specific steps."

"I'm sure it was," I told him soothingly, "but was it any _fun_?"

I saw him hesitate before answering. "If one was graceful, yes. Dancing was one of the few social activities that provided an individual with opportunities for flirtatious intercourse."

"Talking," Abbie was quick to amend between sips of juice. "Not the _other_ kind."

"There's more to dancing than any of that," I jumped in, blushing. "Dancing's good exercise, gets the endorphins going and once in a while it actually_ means_ something."

"Rituals," Crane nodded, his attention wandering to my muffin display. "Dances with religious significance; I'm sure you and your brother know far more about them than I do."

I fished two blueberry muffins out and set them on a sheet of waxed paper before pushing them towards him. "We might. All I'm trying to say is that even if you're not impressed with modern dancing, it's got its uses."

Crane accepted the muffins politely—he's got nice manners, I'll give him that—and gave a small nod. "As you say, Miss Duncan."

Abbie smiled and pointed to a cruller. "Oh I'm pretty sure Crane here can cut a rug in his own way . . . not that we're going to get to see it. Thanks." She took the pastry from me and fished out a five, then wouldn't take the change. "Getting many customers in this blizzard?"

"A few, but not as many as usual," I replied. "Generally snow helps bring them in, but when it's impossible to move on the roads then I'm sitting on a lot of unsold cupcakes. Hope it blows over soon."

Crane, who had been looking out one of the big windows while taking bites of his muffin, made a noise that sounded like agreement, but with some doubt to it. Abbie's smile faded and I shot her a look. "Trouble?"

"You know the saying: everyone talks about the weather but nobody does anything about it," she quipped before taking a bite of her cruller, but there was a worried look in her eyes.

"Well nobody can," I pointed out, "In theory anyway."

"And do you have another thought on the matter, Miss Duncan?" Crane turned to glance my way and I hesitated. That was enough to make him and Abbie move a little closer and I felt foolish again.

"Snowsqualls are . . . uncommon," I began, wondering exactly how to get my point across. "Sure we get snow, but every weather station and radio station usually has the forecast for it days in advance, so we're ready for the storms. A blowup like this, out of nowhere . . . that's not normal. Not . . . natural."

There. I'd said it and having it out there put me in that tricky zone of sounding like a kook. I watched Abbie and Crane look at each other and then back to me.

"It_ is_ a little . . . weird," Abbie agreed, turning her gaze back to me.

"I know Sleepy Hollow is . . . different," I murmured, "full of a lot of things that the average eye might miss, but this snow worries me, Abbie. If we get frozen in, then there could be real trouble. Most of the houses around here rely on heating oil, and if trucks can't bring that in along with other supplies, we could be in for a rough time."

"Valley Forge," Crane murmured in a doleful tone. "None should ever live through those trials again."

"Valley—" I started, but Abbie cut me off.

"—Crane's into history," she offered dryly. "A lot of it. Still, we've had storms before."

"Sure. I know Old Miss Eames used to talk about it during the meteorology unit in science class. She was always pulling out those records from the archives, to show us, but there's something _different_ about this weather," I persisted, not sure how to explain the feeling in my bones. "It's just feels . . . malevolent."

I expected them to chuckle at my foolishness, or at the very least grin, so it was all the more unsettling when neither one of them did. Crane looked thoughtfully out the window where the snow was coming down with renewed vigor.

"Winter of 1778," he murmured. "Over two thousand troops died of disease and exposure to the elements, but many others of starvation." He looked at Abbie. "To use the elemental term: famine."

Abbie looked at the half-eaten cruller in her hand. "I don't think we're going to starve anytime soon, Crane."

I didn't say anything but I felt some uneasiness. If the power went out—a possibility in any storm—then a lot of people out there wouldn't be able to cook. Those with gas hookups would do all right unless the pipes were old and had water condensation in them . . . and that too was a serious likelihood in a town as old as Sleepy Hollow. No electricity and no gas would mean folks would have to resort to their fireplaces—as long as they had enough wood. The same weather that could take out the power would be sure to keep traffic road-blocked as well . . .

"It could well be sooner than you think, Miss Mills," Crane broke into my thoughts, his voice sober. "Much of what we ingest is at the convenience of someone else, and if a storm isolates us for any length of time, then the risk grows."

"Well what do you suggest we _do_?" Abbie snapped back. I got busy wiping the top of the display case because I hate it when people get snippy with each other. Wolf came over and nudged my leg, wanting to be petted so I did.

I heard Crane sigh. "I wish I knew. Wait for spring, I suppose, but for now it may be best to stay alert for any . . . incongruity that may give us an advantage. Perhaps an examination of the records that your Miss Eames used?"

I watched Abbie let go of her annoyance and shoot me an apologetic look. I winked back; we were good. Turning to Crane she replied, "Fine. You'll probably see patterns in them that I won't, and at least we'll be indoors for the afternoon. Thanks for the refreshments, Hannah."

I waved and watched them go, launching themselves back into the swirling white and gray outside the windows. Wolf gave a little whine that I completely agreed with.

-oo00oo-

Things did not get better. We had three days of snow and one day of sullen overcast skies for the better part of the next month, and the snow was well over two feet through most of Sleepy Hollow. I got used to seeing people wrapped up like colorful mummies, and when they came in the shop it sometimes took a few minutes to figure out who they were—at least until the first scarf or wooly hat came off.

And the cold . . . record lows the entire time. Even the hardiest of kids were in it for twenty minutes at most before needing to come inside and thaw. Belsnickle Elementary cancelled their recesses simply because they were afraid of losing kindergartners in the drifts.

I started worrying about supplies when I ran low on both hot chocolate and coffee the same day. When I made it over to the grocery store, I noted empty shelves, especially in the produce section, and they had a sign in the coffee aisle limiting purchases to two cans per customer. I scooped up the biggest ones I could find and looked around for the dog food a few rows over, feeling anxious.

They had Wolf's favorite kibble, _What's your Beef?_, so I stocked up on it and kept adding other things to the cart as I passed through the store—candles, lots of ground turkey and various cuts of meat, even batteries although the power was still on. It was as if my uneasiness directed my shopping, and couldn't help myself. Checking out cost me a pretty penny but at least I had enough to feel my anxiety lessen a bit.

As I loaded my haul in the trunk of my car the wind picked up. It was just after sunset and that uneasy winter dusk had set in when I heard a howl that made the gooseflesh crawl all over my scalp and arms, a low eerie throb of a sound splintered through with . . . hunger.

Don't ask me how I _knew_ what that sound was. I just did. Wolf growled and clambered out of the car, teeth bared. He kept staring out in the direction of the park twenty yards away, so I looked that way myself—not wanting to, you understand, but compelled to.

I saw . . . there's no way to describe what I saw because terror locked up my brain. I remember twisted misshapen antlers, and shaggy fur, but mostly burned into my mind was the wet scarlet of the thing's eyes. It was bleeding behind its vision, two murderous headlights turning my way.

My legs gave out and I fell back against the car, slamming the back of my head against the hatch which was good because the pain made me scramble up again, fumbling for my keys. Wolf kept growling and the sweet idiot looked like he wanted to make a charge for the thing but I screamed. "Wolf!" and he reluctantly clambered into the back. I slammed it shut and sprinted for the driver's seat, throwing myself in and trying to get the key into the ignition without dropping it.

Hyperventilating? Oh yes, overdrive on that. When I risked a look in the rearview mirror . . . it was gone. No bloody eyes, no antlers, nothing. I risked looking through the back window and only found Wolf looking at me, fur wet and ruffled.

I was too much of a coward to get out and go look for tracks in the park. Maybe I've seen too many horror movies, but instead I very sensibly drove home, unloaded the groceries, locked every door and window, then called Seamus.

"I saw something in the park," I told him, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Something," he repeated, and I didn't have to say anything more. "Shit."

"What are we going to do?"

For a long time my brother didn't say anything, and in that pause I could hear the wind making the old telephone lines howl.

"Shit," Seamus said again, and added, "I knew I should have gone fishing. I'll . . . I'll figure something out. You're sure?"

"Damn it!" I shouted at him. "I wouldn't be calling you if it was a loose moose or a some idiot in a fur coat! I heard it, I _saw_ it, Seamus!"

"It's hungry," my brother muttered. "Stay inside, you hear me Hannah? I'll talk to Nathan and see what we can do. Stay_ inside_!"

After I hung up I curled under the covers and when Wolf jumped on the bed I let him stay.


End file.
